


Take-out Turkey Day

by captaintinymite (augopher)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Human, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Derek has a pet cat, Derek works in advertising, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Graduate Student Stiles Stilinski, M/M, New York City, POV Stiles, Power Outage, TA Stiles, Thanksgiving, Writer Stiles, neither can derek, stiles can't cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/captaintinymite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graduate Student Stiles Stilinski is  alone as he studies in New York- well, aside from his only friend in the City. Derek lives in the same apartment building, and circumstances mean they will both be spending Thanksgiving alone. When Derek suggests they spend it together, Stiles jumps on the idea.</p><p>The only problem? Neither one of them can cook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take-out Turkey Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rini/gifts).



Stiles drummed his fingers against the strap to his backpack slung over his left shoulder as he waited for the elevator (slowest elevator in the world) in his building. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, he sipped his coffee. He’d been up until three a.m. the night before, scrambling to finish his first draft of  his fifty thousand word novella for his fall workshop. It was his hope to expand it to a full novel length and submit it for degree consideration next semester.

He would have finished sooner if he hadn’t been up grading papers. The professor in the class he served as the TA for had gone out with a nasty case of pneumonia, and he’d been teaching the last three weeks in his stead. Look, he knew it was a requirement of his graduate program that all students have teaching positions within the university or fellowships, but…

Stiles would be the first to admit that he had no desire to teach at all. He had neither the patience nor the attention span for it. The stipend and compensation sure was nice, but if he had to be honest, he’d rather spend that time in his disgustingly overpriced apartment working on his own writing, not critiquing undergraduates’ short stories.

He swore that if he had to read one more damn vampire story in which the tortured-soul, whiny and undead protagonist had a heart of gold, he was going to puke all over the paper. There was _one_ way he liked his vampires: Blood-thirsty and sensual. That’s it. He wanted corpses, damn it!

His yawn echoed in the empty hallway of the fifteenth floor. Three hours of sleep was not conducive to doing… well pretty much of anything, but his printer crapped out on him somewhere around page seventy-five. Hence, the early start to his day. Surely professor Jorgensen wouldn’t notice him using the printer in his office to take care of the other fifty pages seeing as he was laid up in Bellevue Hospital.

A little part of him wished he’d looked into a non-profit fellowship somewhere in the city; at least that might have been rewarding. Yet, he’d been in New York for a year and a half now, and he still had no idea where he was going half the time. He hated the subway and the way even the cleanest car still smelled of sweat, how he would see rats walking along the tracks every day. Plus, it wasn’t like he was moonlighting as a social butterfly or anything. His life pretty much consisted of school, the occasional movie night, and walking around Central Park for ‘inspiration’ or whatever the fuck he called it while on the phone with his dad back when he first arrived in the city. He spent so much time in his apartment, he was elated that he was subletting a nicer place than he would ever be able to afford for far cheaper than he should have been.

He had exactly one friend in the city who lived on the top floor of his apartment building, and-

Speak of the devil.

The elevator doors opened and Stiles walked into the car, smiling despite his exhaustion. “Morning, Derek,” he said as he yawned once more. He gave his friend a once over, taking note of the expensive suit, more fancy than his usual attire of dress shirt and vest. Derek was even clean shaven. Ugh, of all the days for Stiles to look like a total slob. “Interview?”

“No. Big project presentation today for the ad campaign with Lupine Vodka. If it goes well, I just might get that promotion I’ve been hoping for. I thought… I mentioned this to you on Monday.”

“I know. I know. This week has been- Never mind. You look nice. Very professional.” Nice was an understatement. Stiles’ mouth had gone dry at the sight of him in the expertly tailored three-piece, his hair styled like a film noir screen legend. He looked over to see the tips of Derek’s ears turn pink at the compliment.

He took another drink of coffee. “So, you have all your Turkey Day purchases taken care of? Dinner with Laura out in- where is it again? Sag Harbor?”

“Coram. But no. Her project got delayed for another month. She’s still in Tokyo.”

Stiles winced. “That’s a bummer. That turkey she made last year,” he kissed his fingertips then tossed his hand in the air with joy, “delicious. I think, nay demand, that all my future turkeys be brined and flavored with Herbs de Provence.”

Derek shook his head. “I know. It’s tragic.”

“What in the world are you gonna do? You only cook marginally better than I do, and _I_ am pretty sure I am keeping the take-out industry in business on the Upper West Side.”

“I… don’t know,” Derek said, scratching the back of his neck. “How about you?”

“I couldn’t afford a plane ticket. So it looks like I’ll be hitting up Gristedes, probably for a frozen pizza or something.”

As they exited the elevator and walked towards the 86th St station, Derek cleared his throat. “You know, why don’t you come over and spend Thanksgiving with me?”

Stiles pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. He missed California. Fuck! How he missed California. He took great care on the steps down into the station. The last thing he needed was to fall and break his neck. Although… Derek would probably catch him, and wouldn’t that be heaven? What? He’d seen those arms and the way they damn near busted the seams of every t-shirt the man wore.

“Forget I asked.”

“What? No, sorry. I got distracted. You know how I am. I would _love_ to spend Thanksgiving at your place. We can just order several dishes from different places. It will be perfect, Derek,” he said, swiping his Metrocard through the reader. “Just think. If we get some Chinese, Indian, Pizza, maybe some Matzo ball soup… it truly will be American, a veritable melting pot.” Derek rolled his eyes, but smiled, nonetheless.

The train was packed already when it arrived, and the pair of them shared a handhold, standing far too close for Stiles’ liking. Lies, total lies. He loved it, but it was... inconvenient. Yeah, that was it; it was inconvenient for him. They stood amongst the din of the car, too loud to carry on any sort of conversation, while Stiles’ mind went through various scenarios for Thursday night.

All of them ended with far less clothes than would probably happen.

 

****

 

“Jesus tap dancing-” Stiles groaned, brushing the snow off his coat all while grumbling under his breath. The elevator doors in the lobby opened, and Stiles, grocery bag containing one rotisserie chicken and greek salad in hand, stepped into the car. He stabbed his finger onto the button for the twentieth floor. The doors slowly began to close, making it halfway before the lights flickered a few times then went out entirely.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Though he was not looking forward to trekking up twenty flights of stairs by any means, he did say a silent thank you to the universe for the doors not closing entirely. Being stuck in the elevator for Thanksgiving dinner did not sound fun at all. But, hey, at least he’d have food.

He shimmied out the door and began the long way up.

 

****

 

Twenty miserable minutes later, he knocked on Derek’s door and heard a small ‘Come in,’ from inside the apartment. “Happy Thanksgiving, Derek! I have brought, well it’s not a turkey, but the turkey’s smaller easier to carry cousin, also known as a chicken. Plus salad.” He set down the grocery bag on the table.

He gave a sniff, noticing the motley of smells converging in the room.  Two large jar candles had been lit upon the mantle, another one on the kitchen table, several more around the rest of what Stiles could see of Derek’s apartment.

“Rrrowe, rrrowe.” Derek’s Maine Coon wrapped around his legs, and Stiles crouched down to pet him.

“Hi there, Mammoth.” He scratched behind Mammoth’s ears. “Nice to see you too, buddy.”

From somewhere down the hall, he heard a crash followed by cursing and looked up to see Derek carrying an armful of candles all while limping into the living room. Carefully avoiding tripping over the cat, Stiles rushed over to help him. “You okay?”

“Stubbed my toe.”

“So… I had no idea you were this big a fan of Yankee Candle.” Stiles plucked the lid off one and took a deep breath. Wow, that smelled just like a fine cologne. In the low light, he squinted to read the label. Midsummer’s Night. He’d have to buy-

“That one is my favorite. Um… Laura thinks it’s funny to buy me all these candles. She thinks it’s like a gag gift every time she gives me one. But yeah, I love them. Don't tell her.” 

Stiles mimed zipping his lips while Derek grabbed the lighter off the table and added the candles to the others in the living room. 

“So, I made a pie.”

He gave Derek a playful punch in the shoulder. “Look at you, being all domestic and shit.”

“It was my mother’s recipe. It’s the only thing I know how to bake.”

Was that a blush Stiles saw upon Derek’s cheeks? Hard to tell in the light. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s cute.” Cute? _Really, Stiles?_

Derek shuffled into the kitchen and returned with several bags of takeout. He gestured for Stiles to follow him to the living room. “It’s warmer in here.”

The coffee table barely held their spread plus the six pack of beer Derek picked up. Stiles smirked when he looked among the spread. His heart did this weird ka-thump-thump stuttering thing when he saw that Derek made sure to get everything he’d brought up earlier in the week. Even the Matzo Ball soup.

Derek shifted Mammoth off his seat, earning a meow of protest. "Cut that out. You only want it because I had the seat first. I'm wise to your game, buddy." He turned to Stiles, “So um, I also got some cannolis, and if you want wine, I have half a bottle of Malbec, or whiskey in the cabinet. If you don’t want alcoh-”

Stiles reached over and covered Derek’s hand with his own. “It’s fine. Beer is fine.” Then, as if he finally noticed where his hand was, he pulled it back like he’d been burned, posture slumping in on itself in embarrassment. _Damage control, damage control!_

“So, this is not exactly what I was hoping for when I said let’s spend Thanksgiving together instead of being losers alone.”

“I know,” Stiles said, then swallowed his bite of pizza, “all I wanted was to watch Cam Newton beat up on the Cowboys. I don’t even _like_ football, Derek. I just wanted to see the Cowboys lose for no other reason, than one of my exes loved them. Made me watch every game. Now, every time they lose, I imagine Chad’s douchey face, crying into his beer. It brings me great joy." Then, he grumbled under his breath, "The cheating bastard."

Derek slurped a pad Thai noodle into his mouth, and Stiles absolutely did not imagine him slurping on something else. “I can’t imagine anyone being foolish enough to cheat on you. I mean… why would anyone ruin that?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How could anyone not think you’re amaz… If I was. Shit. I mean- never mind.”

Stiles stared, slack-jawed at him for several awkward moments before grabbing the soup and serving himself some. Derek seemed to sense the change in the atmosphere and stood up, walking to the window to peer outside.

“The snow is really coming down out there now. Come look at this.”

“No thanks. I saw enough of it earlier.” Then, he remembered something he’d left in his apartment for the evening. “Hey! I’ll be right back. I promise.”

He was out the door in seconds, rushing down the stairs to his floor, as the butterflies in his stomach swarmed in full force. In his haste to flee from the room where the air was too stuffy, he’d forgotten his phone. So now, he made his way down the hall guided only by auxiliary lights.

His apartment was pitch black when he opened the door, but luckily for him, he was the son of a cop. There was a table near the front door where he dropped his keys and wallet when he got home every day. Somewhere on it there was a flashlight. He was sure of it, so he fumbled around trying to locate the damn thing.

“Suck it, blackout!” The concentrated beam of light made finding his backpack a bit difficult, and true to form, he tripped over the bag. His flashlight skittered across the floor, and he had to crawl after it. Good thing Derek wasn’t in here to see him make a fool of himself.

Then again, maybe it would help to lighten the mood. Derek just had to go and make things weird, saying that. It was bad enough that Stiles was harboring some major feelings for him and-

Wait a just a hot New York minute!

Stiles dug through his backpack and found what he needed, remembering the flashlight this time. He bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time. He needed to know.

Winded and mind going a mile a minute, he crashed back into Derek’s apartment. “What you said before… when you said never mind. What were you going to say before you cut yourself off?” he panted.

Derek looked over at him from where he sat in front of the fireplace. Stiles thought the way he twisted his hands in his lap was freaking adorable. _Adorable? Oh Stiles, you are so far gone._ “Just forget it.”

He dropped his flashlight onto the table harder than he intended and went to kneel in front him, prying Derek's hands apart to hold in his. “No. I don’t think I want to forget it. Please, finish the sentence.”

Derek gave a chuff of nervous laughter. “I… don’t want to make it weird.”

Stiles got the feeling Derek was about to shut down on him. Drastic times called for drastic measures. So, he grabbed his cannoli from the table and stabbed a finger into the mascarpone. Then, he poked Derek in the nose. “There. I made it weird first. Wouldn’t want you to be alone in the uh, you know, weirdness thing.”

Instead of completing his aborted thought from before, Derek closed the distance between them and kissed him. Stiles’ mind reeled in about a thousand directions at once. Before he could even react, Derek pulled back, and in the firelight, Stiles could definitely see the flush spreading across his face.

“I… um… sorry. I shouldn’t have- I’ll understand if you want to go.”

Stiles cut him off and returned the kiss, this time far less tentative than their first. He held Derek’s face in his hands, thumb brushing against the rough stubble that had grown in since earlier in the week. As he’d always expected, Derek’s lips were unfairly soft.

Derek finally seemed to be on board, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him into his lap. When Stiles gasped, his lips parted, and Derek’s tongue slipped in between them. Gentle and sweet, not hurried in the least, but no less feverish, _this_ was a kiss with intent, full of unspoken declarations.

Derek’s fingers skimmed across the skin of Stiles’ back where his shirt had bunched up in the movement. He could feel the heat of the fire, almost too warm, and… well now, this was a plot device of just about every romantic comedy he’d ever seen.

He didn’t fucking care.

However, after several minutes, they broke apart, and Stiles, chest heaving, leaned his forehead against Derek’s. “Finish it please?” he whispered.

Derek tightened his arms around him. “I was going to say, if I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go.”

Suddenly quite shy, he dipped his head to rest it upon Derek’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Derek laughed, and Stiles could feel the way his chest rumbled. He enjoyed the feeling, made it his personal goal to make Derek laugh as often as possible.

“Yeah. Hey, I brought you something.” Stiles crawled off Derek’s lap and grabbed the copy of his first draft and flashlight off the table. His heart hammered in his chest as he placed it in Derek’s hands.

_In Sheep’s Clothing_ ? That’s catchy. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to read it before you turned it in. I always like reading your stuff.”

Stiles noticed the way the mascarpone had transferred to his skin and left it sticky. He licked his thumb and tried to fix the problem. He was only marginally successful. “Read the note my professor wrote.”

He watched with bated breath as Derek turned the page, using the flashlight to read the handwriting scrawled on the page.

“ _Stiles, I loved it_ ,” he read aloud, “ _The storyline of the supernatural city being invaded by hunters disguised as ‘sheep’ was ingenious. I enjoyed reading the subversion of the cliche that the supernatural is unusual or strange, when in this case, it is humans that that are the outsider. Your characters compelled me, especially Sebastian, the werewolf district attorney. I loved the way you described him, his expressive eyebrows and snark as a way to deal with his laconic nature. Please consider expanding this for your master’s project. It has real potential._ ” Derek took a shaky breath. “Stiles...you made me a character in your book, gave him my middle name,” his words rang of pure reverence.

“Of course I did. You have helped me so much, reading my work, helping me proofread all my assignments. I- Derek, you’re my only friend in the city. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“I’m honored.” Derek sat the draft on the table and kissed him again. “Stay? We don’t have to do-”

Stiles pressed a finger to his lips and nodded. “Be careful what you ask for. I may never leave.”

“I’d like that.”

Stiles couldn't help but melt at the sight of Derek's soft and shy smile; he returned it with one of his own.  “Me too.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
